“Ah well. Isn’t this awkward.” Lyra tilts her head at the sight of the lone male at the balcony in the night, her eyes creasing lightly as she wiped off her knife of blood, the body beneath her cleanly slaughtered and cut–the only visible signs of her assassination being the wide red line that gaped against the male’s throat.
“Were you ordered to take care of him too?” She tilted her head, wide-eyed and utterly innocent as she moped up the small splatter of blood from the arterial spray on her face. The man had been awake and at his desk when she’d slipped in and slit his throat–a simply, extremely effective way of ending a person’s life without letting them know–a quick, fast but lethal slice from the left to the right of their throat, just deep enough, and quick enough for it to be lethal. Of course, that meant that there would be arterial sprays, jugular blood, and the gurgling sound of the trachea of a victim struggling not to lose a life–as well as the worry of how to return safely without being caught or seen, of which, she had failed miserably– as she blinked innocently at the male in the balcony, knife flipping lightly over her fingers, head tilted as she assessed the situation with cold, calculative eyes.
Gone was the usual childish lightness that she usually had when interacting with others. What came as the most important to her–as of now– was the thought of how she was supposed to leave this place alive. Her breathing slowed gently, the sound of eerie silence permeating the still night air, the pads of her feet turning soft but silent as she measured her breaths lightly to blinker her own presence. Tension flowed away from her shoulders, every inch of her muscles relaxing as she moved towards the male languidly but smoothly–as though she was but a mere passerby without any ounce of killing intent. Before either of them knew it, she’d moved quickly to stand before the male, the cool blade of her knife pressed against the skin of where his liver lay.
“I’m sure we can come to a mutual agreement about this, can’t we?” Her voice was lightly muffled behind the mask, her eyes creasing into crescents as she smiled. “Of course, one move that I see that could endanger me and this knife slips very neatly into your liver. Whether you’d like to die of a hemorrhage or stay alive–that would be entirely up to you, though I’d prefer if it were the latter.”
there’s inevitable line of admiration when it comes to others’ works. he’s been in this scene long enough to grow bored by the limitations of techniques that could be utilized during the works that he has been experimenting on his own, twisting and turning the metaphorical gears of his skills to ensure that each kill is memorable — both for him and the spectators. ( and on a side, the occasional cleaners that have to sweep the scenes clean. ) seeing others’ products can be refreshing, seeing that he doesn’t get exposed to the privileges a lot. there is a certain benchmark, and he cannot simply show up at every crime setting all the time. however, this one was accidental, but entertaining nonetheless. a scavenged delight, if he might say so himself.
her noticing him is a tad late, but perhaps it’s that he’s always been good at hiding in the shadows. he knows the vantage points, having been trained over half of his life for both survival and assault purposes. he’s been there longer than she’s realized, but this person has been so immersed in the kill that the realization dawns on her quite a while later. or rather, he lets her discover his presence. it can make or break the experience, he’s decided, but seeing that she’s going on a route that many would typically do upon being witnessed mid-murder, it’s definitely the former for him. he likes the thrill, pretending to wear the expression of shock on his shell. when she’s turning the knife point at him as he stands with his back against the wall, nowhere to run, he can feel the cold of the metal against the layer of his branded sweatshirt. her speaking discloses to him just how she is, and that is an interesting turn, piquing his interests without a single doubt.
he almost smiles, but maintains the trepidation on his countenance. as if he’s scared of his life — is he ever? he reigns in the tantalizing wish to taunt, nevertheless, eyes levelled on hers as he tries to mimic the fear people would display. he inhales, acting as if there’s air caught between the columns of his throat, before relaxing himself into the threat. there’s an imminent fighting urge that he refuses to indulge for the first few seconds, letting her speak. letting her think that she has the upper hand of it all. wonders, for this moment, if exhibiting the fact that he’s not just a harmless civilian would affect him at all — but she’s nothing but a hitwoman as well, and he’s hold too many keys to her secret doors either way. her identity, her forgetting, and now this?
he’d say it’s pretty safe for him to retaliate the move, rapidly catching her wrist before she registers the sudden movement, and turns her body forcefully around after snatching the knife with relative ease. he has her back pressed against his body, then, with the knife in his hand, threatening to cut open her jugular as he secures her hands by the wrists between them. he hums, then, and it’s the spotlight for him to claim. “right,” he says against her ear. “not as careful as you thought, aren’t you?” chuckles quietly. “well, thanks for caring about my wellbeing. that was very... kind of you.” ( @mixlyra )
